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“Benji is alerting on you. Your blood pressure must be really low. Keep your head between your knees while I go get you a soda.”
I try to laugh. “That’s one I’ve never heard before.”
“Just stay there!” she yells as she jogs away to somewhere unknown, leaving Benji to sit and monitor me.
I don’t know how much time passes between that moment and the next because I’m busy trying to keep myself from collapsing onto the unwelcoming stone ground, but when she comes back, I can feel the cold, condensated surface of the soda as she presses it into the skin of my palm.
“I know you’re struggling right now, but drink this if you can. The hit of sugar will really help.”
“I’m not sure what happened. I’m just really not feeling good.”
She pushes a hand to my forehead that feels like ice, and I lean into the feeling subconsciously. “That feels really good.”
“I think you have a fever. You feel pretty hot to the touch.”
“Aw, thanks,” I say pathetically, the lameness of my joke practically written in the stars.
“Just lie down for a little bit.” Brooke’s hands move to my biceps, and then the soda leaves my hand as she eases me down until I’m lying on the bench. It feels a little better, but I’m definitely not firing on all cylinders yet.
Brooke almost looks excited when I glance up at her through the fogginess. “What?”
“I’m sorry, really. I know this isn’t an exciting event. It’s just…I’ve never been the one not passing out before. It’s a whole different experience.”
“Pffft,” is all I manage when she leans forward and lays her head on my chest with a cackle.
“I know, I’m sorry, it’s terrible. My therapist calls them intrusive thoughts for a reason, I guess, huh?”
“You’re so comfortingly real, Brooke. And if I weren’t still fading in and out of consciousness, I’d probably kiss you right now.”
I’m just unaware enough not to freak out at saying that, and Brooke’s just busy enough taking care of me not to react.
Carefully, she puts the soda to my lips and gives me a few sips while I try to make heads or tails of anything around me. I’m woozy and uneasy, and I really think I need to lie down somewhere that isn’t a bench in the middle of San Antonio.
“Do…do you think you can help me get back to the motor home?” I ask weakly as I push myself back to sitting. “I can’t be sure, but I have a sneaking suspicion I might be sick.”
Brooke laughs so hard that if I had any control over myself at all, I swear I’d snap out of it. It’s that good of a sound.
But I don’t, and the best I can do is cooperate as Brooke arranges my arm over her shoulder and shoves to standing for the both of us. I’m not great on my feet, but with a grit of my teeth, I make a promise to myself not to take Brooke down with me.
Just get to the motor home. Just get to the motor home. It’s the only thing my mind can focus on.
I have no idea how long we walk or where we’re going. I can barely keep my head up, and my eyes can’t focus on anything but my feet.
Plus, I’m certain the heat in Texas is only adding to my delirious state.
Some kind of black SUV is waiting by the time we get to the entrance or exit or whatever it is, and just about the last thing I remember is falling into the back seat after Brooke tells me it’s our Uber.
Only one thought haunts me.
Man, I hope I don’t puke all over her new shoes.
Friday, May 26th
Brooke
Yesterday, Chase told me he wanted to kiss me.
Well, sort of.
He was halfway unconscious and coming down with some kind of virus, but he did say it, and my ears—they can’t unhear it.
But for the last sixteen hours, he’s been mostly sleeping, and I’ve been like a mom with a newborn for fifteen hours and fifty-nine minutes of them.
Checking his chest for breathing movements, touching his clammy forehead nine hundred times to see if he’s broken his fever, and putting a cool washcloth on his neck after he got back from a puking session in the bathroom are just a few of the things I’ve been busy with since we got back from the River Walk last night.
I am Mary Poppins, and he is my charge.
I don’t think Ms. Poppins had these scandalous thoughts, though, so that’s definitely a different dimension. And I’m not even addressing the fact that I didn’t give a shit about germs and might have…sort of…pressed my lips to his—just barely I swear!—after I got him settled in bed last night or that I spent twenty minutes talking myself out of masturbating when I got situated on the pullout couch.
